False gods

Lance Armstrong could very well fit Aristotle's classical definition of a "tragic hero."

He saw himself an essentially virtuous luminary whose major flaw created both his unparalleled success and downfall, and whose circumstances could evoke pity, sympathy and compassion.

Some could argue his work on behalf of cancer survivors through the sale of 80 million yellow Livestrong bracelets and his impact on elevating the sport of cycling qualified him as an essentially virtuous person.

On the other hand, his ruthless desire to win at any cost — to endanger his own health and damage the reputations and lives of those who sought to expose him — could all have been the perverted mettle of the man, covered by the indignant facade of virtue. Perhaps he was a villain all along.

Armstrong's fall is not unlike that of the Greek character Icarus, who fell from the sky after flying too closely to the sun with a pair of wings fashioned out of feathers and wax by his father.

The cyclist reached his unprecedented height when he won his seventh consecutive Tour de France in 2005. His fall, under the allegation of doping, began long before his last Tour win and ended with Oprah.

His recent confession of doping was tempered — not justified — by the claim that just about everybody else was doing it. The definition of "cheating," he told Winfrey, suggests grabbing an advantage not

available to fellow competitors. That wasn't the case, he said. Anybody could have been doping, and most were.

Sounds like Major League Baseball in the 1980s. And the hens have come home to roost now for those characters, with the likes of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds standing on the outside of the Hall of Fame. They may never see the inside of the Hall now without paying the admission price, as their dismayed earthbound fans are required to do.

These supremely competitive athletes are afflicted with weaknesses common to human beings. Because of their almost unimaginable physical gifts, they are elevated to godlike status by their fans, but they are false gods. Their warped interpretation of the wonder we experience when we see their skills and accomplishments — and our practiced willingness to suspend disbelief — fuels their hubris, lifting them closer to the pinnacle from which they eventually fall.

And we fans? Maybe we can glean a lesson in healthy skepticism while considering any of our heroes. An aesthetic appreciation of physical conditioning and athleticism, tempered by the consideration of the humanity of the objects of our awe, can raise everyone's spirit ... and cushion the blow when the athlete stumbles.